Noodling around (w/ Ambush Predators

I. It's Fresh!

Very fresh! Auntie Vi and I would be emailing a lot about the weather these recent days, if she were alive. 
It's snowing again this morning, and it's cold, 18º F ( –8º C) and dropping during the day, heading to below zero F tonight.

I've been feeling kind of bad and sad and mad. 
Fallout from work. Not all because of Big Boss 'n' The Christians--

I also mishandled a volunteer situation--my fault. But also not my fault: I shouldn't be put in the position I am. 
I do NOT want to "manage sideways" anymore to try to compensate for Bad Management.

Fretting in the middle of the night (eye roll), I realized:
NO ONE else cares if we don't have supplies, if we operate in chaos.
I really can, should, and want to drop this impulse to Fix Work.

And "fix" (do) My Own work!

Girlettes need sparkle ponies for their parade!

My go-to emotional reaction is "freeze"-- feeling low and slow, wary & watchful. So I had to make myself get Christmas decorations up from my storage closet in the basement, on my way to do the laundry.
  I didn't have the pizzazz to put the decorations up right away though.

 But then, walking home from the bus, I saw that the local florist had set on the curb a pile of pine boughs--trimmings from the bottom of Christmas trees he sells in his little side lot. (I got one from him my first year here, but they're around $75--and take up a lot of room.)

I took an armful of the pine trimmings home, soaked them overnight, and stood them in an aluminum flour canister (below).  The boughs are so fresh, my hands were sticky with sap, and they smell nice too.
So that's cheering. (Also, free. Which fits my budget.)

Penny Cooper requested the vintage Christmas balls (handmade from kits). Penny is always equanimous.
That's Frankcolumbo with Penny--like her namesake, she's also never flustered.

I'm standing in the living room to take this photo, facing into the kitchen.
You can see ^ the orange legs of my kitchen table (left side of the photo), and the black chair where I sit to blog in the cold weather, away from the chilly living-room windows.
 
(My bedroom is around the corner, right of that room divider.)
I should draw a floor plan--I loved when blogger GZ drew hers.)

II. Noodling with the Library Card Print 

I'm not so low I can't start noodling around with my next print--a library card. Yay! 
It's for my Childhood Tech series. A trio, so far: 
a typewriter, Joe Buck's transistor radio (my favorite), and a wall-mounted pencil sharpener.

First step, looking at old library cards. (I thought I'd saved mine from childhood, but I can't find it.) It looked much like the one on the right, below:

 

I'm thinking about what I want it to be. Not a literal copy.
Maybe like a prize on a cereal box--with a dotted line to cut out.

Child World.

III. Ambush Predators: Bad Pike

And I'm looking at other artists. I just discovered English printmaker Gertrude Hermes (1901-1983). Not that I'd even want to do the fine work she does, but she inspires me.
royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/name/gertrude-hermes-ra

BELOW: Hermes's woodblockprint Undercurrents (1938)--in thirds, so the carving shows. (I didn't line the thirds up exactly.) 

That big muskie lurking at the bottom?
I think of that as a Minnesota fish. 

Yep... Looked it up [wikipedia]:
Muskellunge, the biggest fish in the pike family, are native to North America--the Great Lakes region and beyond.

They are ambush predators, and the top predator in any body of water they're in--eating animals as big as muskrats.
Only bald eagles and humans threaten them.

And the name is local (to me):

"Muskellunge" originates from the Ojibwe... mji-gnoozhe, maskinoše, or mashkinonge, 
meaning "bad pike", "big pike", or "ugly pike" respectively.

Oh, okay, but pike are in England:

"The pike, often revered as the 'water wolf' of UK waters, stands as a symbol of the cunning and strength. 
Ambush Predators, they known for their sudden and explosive attacks, often lying in wait for unsuspecting prey."
--via 

Hm, in 1938 Great Britain, why would Gertrude Hermes print water wolves  lurking in ambush under swimmers?

III. Ambush Predators: Anthropic Court Case

Another example of how we're Living in a Sci-Fi World. 

I'm dealing with Modern Tech Predators too:
 I got an email saying I can file a claim re the court settlement against Anthropic for pirating copyrighted work to train its AI, using without permission more than 7 MILLION copies of books--
 including, super weirdly-- three of my copyrighted books.

> > > The Weird GOOD Thing: 
I would get money from the settlement! 

It's a $1.5 billion (!) settlement, but it's not like they can't afford to pay for the works they use:

"Anthropic is in a good position to handle the sizable compensation. The company recently announced the completion of a new funding round worth $13 billion, bringing its total value to $183 billion."

More:
npr.org/2025/09/05/nx-s1-5529404/anthropic-settlement-authors-copyright-ai  

And the old world exists side-by side:
I also got a paper mail saying I'm called for Jury Duty at the end of December. I have to go in person on the first day.
 (I think after, you can call in? Not sure.)

IV: Ambush Predators: Panthers

Time to bundle up and go to work.
This week is both Big Boss's and Mr Furniture's birthdays, and there's a lunch today.
Last year I made Big Boss a three-layer chocolate cake.
That's because I'd forgotten I don't like him, but now I remember.

Mr F is the self-taught artist who collages suits of clothes with political images--some from his early days as a Black Panther sympathizer in prison.
I love him.

He had been very wary of me at first, but one day (I've written about this before) he, who does not use the Internet, asked me if I could find a book that the prison had taken from him, The Black Panthers Speak (1970).

"It had a yellow cover," he said, some forty years later.

I was able to find it online, in minutes. Seven dollars. He bought it.

Recently Mr F asked me to order some Black Panther Party patches for his clothes collages. Looking for them, I found these too--which he loved. I am giving them to him for his birthday.

Mr Furniture is torn about Big Boss. They are both Black men who came up the hard way, and Mr F is my age, old enough to be BB's father. But he feels ... I guess the word is, betrayed.
One day Mr F said to me, 
"We've lost him".

Meaning lost BB to white Christian culture. (Mr F and I come from such different worlds, but he knows I see this like he does.)

And the other day, I was telling Mr F how awful the 'thank-you' dinner was--which he was smart enough NOT to have attended!
Don't bite the hook.

And Mr F. said, 
"I told Big Boss, 'I love you like a son I would give away'."

Brutal. Panthers are another ambush predator. But religious bigots are like invasive species, smothering the entire ecosystem. 

Waiting to be found, or given.

ABOVE: Along the waterfront: my map of childhood water places
___________________

Ugh, I'm still feeling thrown off by work culture -- dampened.
 I suspect it's going to take some time to re-orient myself there;
but meanwhile, I'm filling the gaps where the rain gets in with Other Things, 
and I'm so happy that yesterday I made myself accept Volunteer Vikki's invitation to go to her Congregational church. 

I didn't want to, fearing emotional gloppiness, but it wasn't like that AT ALL.

An Ojibwe elder and Water Protector, Sharon Day, was giving the guest sermon, and beforehand she led a one-hour reflection on water in our lives.  
 I loved her. 

It's funny--Sharon did just what the Spiritual Director I'd disliked had done at the church I'd gone to last month:
she invited us to close our eyes and reflect.
But instead of feeling fake and syrupy, it felt REAL.
I thought, Okay, well, I'll just try that.

The prompt was to reflect on a body of water we have known well... 

Afterwards we could write a thank-you letter to the water.
Instead, I felt moved to start to draw a map of two lakes and the channel between them that I grew up near.
 [Map ABOVE (I'd like to fill it in more.)]

As kids, my sister and I spent a lot of time along the shore-- sometimes with the neighbor girls our age, but always unaccompanied by adults, because those were the days. 
We had our own names for places--the geography of childhood...

People read their letters, if they wanted.
Some of the reflections were about grand and powerful bodies of water, like Lake Superior, but at one point Sharon Day said that when she was in recovery, sometimes she would submerse herself in her bathwater and listen to her heart beat.

I was so filled up by that hour, I didn't go to the church service. 

Here, below, is a cool little story Sharon Day tells about a young woman who joined her for ten days on one of the Nibi (Water) Walks--walking the length of the entire Mississippi River--and what the young woman found, or, what found her.

"The Nibi (Water) Walks are Indigenous-led, extended ceremonies to pray for the water. Every step is taken in prayer and gratitude for water, our life giving force."
--More here: https://www.nibiwalk.org

BELOW: Clip from "Sharon Day: Speaking for the Water", transcript of Native Lights Podcast: Where Indigenous Voices Shine, Hosts: Leah Lemm, Cole Premo, Minnesota Native News, July 31, 2025,
minnesotanativenews.org/sharon-day-speaking-for-the-water

Sharon Day: "A young woman... had been in treatment, and she got out and drank that night, and then the next day, her mother said, 
'You’re gonna go walk on this water walk'. 

So she was with me for 10 days. 
It was kind of a struggle those first couple of days, and at one point that first night, she told me, she said, 
'I really want to drink, and I have $20 in my pocket and I could go drinking.' 

And I said,  'Yes, you could, but let me, let me tell you a story and sing you a song.'

 So I did, told her the whole story, sang a song, and she said, 
'Okay, I’m going to go to bed, but tomorrow I might drink.' 
Like, okay, fine. 

Well, she stayed with me for 10 days, and on the 10th day, she ran up ahead of us. 
We crossed the Mississippi River into Wisconsin, and there was a wayside rest up there, and she ran up ahead of us, and she came running back,
 and she had this eagle feather in her hand, and she said,
'Look what I found.' 

And I said, 'Look what found you.' 

And she said, 'It’s kind of like me. It’s a little battered.' 

And I said, 'But it’s still beautiful.'

She said, 'Yes.' "

[End clip from Sharon Day: Speaking for the Water]
________________________

(This reminded me of recently quoting from children's book The Story of Edward Tulane, by Kate DiCamillo:
 "Someone will come for you".)

And this all reminds me of Advent too, which started yesterday, the pregnant weeks leading up to Christmas.

At this time, the Magi are walking toward the Baby Yet to Be Born.
They are bringing gifts. But the Baby is the gift, like the eagle feather.

At this time of year, I am always reminded to wonder...

What gifts are walking toward us, which we cannot even imagine?

And, What gift are we, waiting to be found, or given?

$free choices

I. Free!

I was given gifts of earmuffs and a pair of mittens at work the other day. The mittens were made for me by a regular customer. She even asked what colors I like. 

She is a possible model for me: 
she crafts lots of things, and she both sells and gives them away with lightness. She doesn't seem to have any hang-up whatsoever about either.

BELOW: Wearing my mittens and earmuffs at a burger joint near work, where I had French fries for lunch yesterday. It's joined to a laundromat and smells pleasantly of hot-dryers inside. 
Outside, it smells like drugs. When I walked up, people were bent over in the sheltered doorway of the laundromat, smoking crack (chemically smelling).
 In the parking lot round the other side sat a police car.
Such is life in the 'hood.

Anyway--even though the mittens were a warm and welcome gift of love, the gift of earmuffs are my favorite, because of work politics:

Mr. Jester Mushroom was the only manager at work this holiday week. He's assistant manager, but that mostly means he has a set of keys--he's still "one of us" workers (so far). 
The mood was mellow.

Jester was at the cash register, giving the cashier a break, when I stopped on my way out to pay for the earmuffs. They had a new tag, but no price.

"How much are they?" Jester asked.

"Esmeralda will know," I said. 

I turned to ask our coworker who hangs clothes. She is a warm and lovely person, from Mexico, and her English is not fluent.

"Three," she said, which seemed very fair.

Jester started to ring it up on the register, then stopped and said, 
"Esmeralda, did you say three or free?"

"Free," she said. "Free!"

And Jester agreed. "Free."

This gift helped me especially much because I've not been able to shake the ick of the so-called 'thank-you' dinner last Sunday.
Getting REAL free love from coworkers and customers re-sets my mood.

This morning, a volunteer Vicky is picking me up to go to her Congregational church--a liberal congregation, tending toward wealth, like the one I went to last month, but with less gibberish?
We shall see.

II. Pick Your Own Sticks

I'm interested, but I'm not looking for a home church. 
As I keep saying, the most important thing is to
Do My Own Work. 

When I find myself ruminating about the store––(sometimes thinking about shopping baskets in the middle of the night--I resent that!)––I remind myself to think about my projects. 
Which works, but man, my mind runs to that old groove.

Stop it, mind!

I must ponder, for instance, how to make God's eyes. 
Yet more snow has covered the ground, so it's the end of pick-up sticks for the season. I like natural sticks best, but if I'm going to keep making them this winter, I'll have to use other things. Chopsticks worked, pencils not so much. 
I'll keep my eyes open.

 The wool and wood eyes seem to weather well.

III. Choose Your Own Colors

After I address my Christmas prints this afternoon, I will start a new lino print. 

I want to print a library card!
Do you remember I printed punch cards?
I loved those and the whole idea of hand-making everyday things that are now machine-made of plastic.

My sister has started quilting since she quit working six years ago. 
(She is happy and engaged in retirement--very. 
She reminds me of our ever-active Auntie Vi . . . which also reminds me that much as I cherished Vi, I did not love everything about her--for instance, that she always insisted Every Day Is a SUNNY Day. 
Spare me.)

A friend helps Sister choose her fabrics because, she says, "I'm no good at choosing colors."

How can you be bad at choosing colors?
Just choose ones you like!

But... no. I get it actually. 
Working in Housewares, I see that people are often spectacularly bad to anything to do with DESIGN---from color to placement.
So very bad at it. 
Like, putting tiny objects on dark, bottom shelves or behind tall things.

But I'd still rather make my own mistakes in craft/art than follow someone else's "correct" way. 
I mean, what's the point?

I guess the point is getting the finished object--a perfect quilt.
My sister sews the patches with a sewing machine, and she also hires someone with a long-arm sewing machine to top-stitch (the decorative stitches on the quilt top).
The quilt looks exactly like what it is:
machine assembled.

She's happy and proud, so that's fine for her--no harm! 

(And it’s not AI designed, though Sister keeps texting me AI material… yesterday, a synopsis of a book she read. Why? Is her brain going?

Sometimes I truly wonder. 

But bink says she was always like this. I hope it’s that and not loss of mental acuity.)

For me, this kind of quilt-making is a model of what I don't want to do.

So... on with library cards. 

Hey, I could print pennies too! 

“A simpler, more agreeable time”

This morning I’m listening to Sarah Vowell read her book Lafayette in the Somewhat United States—she’s talking about the patriotic fever that welcomed Lafayette’s tour of the US in 1825, the same year there was near-violence over the presidential election—including threats to storm the Capitol.

In the first 15 minutes, she’s already made me laugh out loud. 

This:

Americans’ unified enthusiasm for Lafayette, Vowell says, was for the man himself – – it was not a reflection of a simpler, more agreeable time. 

“In the United States, there never was a simpler, more agreeable time.”

——

Hopefully today —Thanksgiving in the USA—will agree with us.

M & Q drove down from Duluth yesterday – – even though there’d been a snowstorm the night before. Here, too.  This feels early, after years of brown Christmases – – but bink reminds me that when we were kids, risking sliding off snowy roads into ditches —(or dying)—on Thanksgiving was quite normal.

I’m putting a little extra effort into the vegetable dishes for today’s dinner, as one guest is vegan. Roast potatoes dressed with fresh rosemary, onion, garlic, and olive oil;  the collards & mushrooms, w smoked paprika and apple cider vinegar, are made with an enriched stock from  a small sheet of dried seaweed, dried mushrooms, leeks, parsley, and the usual mirepoix.

The guest is bringing vegan pumpkin pie & ice cream! I am taking a day off from not-eating white sugar.

There’ll be a roast chicken in the Dutch oven too, for those who partake (probably me). 

I hope you enjoy your Thanksgiving – – or, as the case may be, Thursday.

2026 Girlettes Calendar/ I Was a Victim of Charity

I. What Does a Toy Mean to You? 2026 Girlettes Calendar

I wasn't sure I'd make a sixth Girlettes calendar, 
but there were howls of protest here: 

"You have to show Doll Summer Camp/ the Boy King James/ our apple candle...!"

 

____________________

So, that's done--always a big undertaking, sorting and choosing, arranging... You know.
Plus, if I choose any photos from previous years, I have to check the old calendars to see if I've already featured them--I don't always remember.

I LOVE Penny Cooper & Low standing in the sink to wash their hands, for instance, and was surprised to see I'd never featured it. (It's from roadside stop on a car trip with bink to see Auntie Vi, before Covid.)
Maybe I thought a bathroom sink wasn't picturesque? 
But they're so darn cute there! 

____________________

Busy week coming up. 

I worked on my Christmas print and the calendar this weekend, and I've barely cleaned or organized or shopped for Thanksgiving. 
Turns out Marz & her sweetie Q are not staying here though--
they are getting an Airbnb so they can have time together. 

Once again, I feel like such a mom, even though Marz is not my kid.  
"But you practically live with Q," I want to say (BUT DON'T). 
"Don't you want to spend all your vacation time with me?"

Ha-ha, guess not!

It's just what you want for your kid though, right? 
That they should go away and have their own life. 
Absolutely!
 100%.

 I'm a little sad and disappointed anyway.
Still, it gives me Wednesday to clean and cook!

Now I'm inspired to do more linoleum printmaking, I won't get rid of that set-up. 
Plus there're the yarn and sticks for God's eye makings.
And dolls and bears...

I am going to start thinking of the living room as a studio, 
and then I'll have different expectations of order there.

As long as it doesn't achieve the disorder of Francis Bacon's studio, which looks like it's about to immolate itself, I'll be okay.
I always admire his studio though. 
If I painted in oils, I expect mine'd look similar.

_____________________

A Victim of Charity

I had such an awful time at the Thank-You staff dinner last night, I kind of have to laugh.
I think I'd mentioned a rich donor had wanted to celebrate the thrift store staff with dinner at a fancy restaurant?

Well, this donor is one of Big Boss's Christian connections. As in the evangelical, born-again type.

Now, you know I love religions, 
and I count "good old Jesus and his family" as my friends (I love that Alexei Navalny referred to them that way)––along with many other wacky Black Swan figures in history and Story.

But there's a kind of Christian I do not do well with:
the "Jesus is my Lord" type that is more interested in
 Certainty and Control than Mystery and Muddlement. 

A very common type. Very much not Toyful.

And 'not Toyful' was the vibe last night. 
The dinner was for staff, but the host (not the donor, who wasn't present) was a local Christian leader, and he set the tone.
Basically, I felt like a Victim of Charity.

The attitude of people who perpetrate Charity is:

We are doing something for you, 
but we are not asking you what you want.
We are giving you what we think you SHOULD want.

This attitude to charitable giving is definitely NOT just Christian--
it is a common, normal attitude (American, anyway).

I'd been feeling a little worried about the dinner beforehand,
 and right off the bat I knew I was going to have a bad reaction. 
We each got one (1) ticket for a free drink when we walked in, 
but the bartender said he could not serve me a martini--only beer & wine--even if I paid for the martini myself.

He was visibly embarrassed to say it, standing in front a wall of liquor bottles, but those were the rules the hosts had established, he explained.
So I asked for a martini glass, and I poured my beer into it, with a lemon twist.

I hate this moral policing and self-righteousness.
It's very human:
I see it all around, on the Left as well as the Right,  
and I often catch myself doing it--and I hate that too.

It is a killer of freedom as taught by Noam Chomsky ("figure it out yourself"), 
and Saint Paul ("work out your own salvation"), 
and Roger Williams (Soul Freedom), 
and the whole philosophy that 
YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO FUCK UP.

Indeed, fucking up is a way of learning.
Okay, within reason.
Societies have laws for Public Order and Safety;
parents set up gates so children don't fall off balconies.

But in Soul & Art, yes, we may benefit from help and learned-skills and teachings and stories,
 . . . and then we need freedom to PLAY.

And this kind of restriction through "Help" that is "good for you" is the opposite.

"We will only let you buy healthy things 
because we want what's best for you."

No you don't.
You want to exercise control.

Also, for God's sake, how stupid is a "no martini" rule?
If you let people drink beer & wine, what's the difference? 
They just drink more to get the same alcohol.
If they really wanted to control it, they should have let everyone know it was a Dry dinner--no alcohol at all.

Meanwhile, talk about unhealthy--everyone was chowing down on steaks and farm-raised salmon.
My vegan pasta was so greasy and gloppy, I didn't even eat it all. (I do appreciate they even had a vegan option.)

The restaurant was very cool though--
built in the 1930s, it had an F. Scott Fitzgerald vibe.
It had the sort of wall geegaws that Trump loves in gold, 
but in tasteful gray and white.

Side note: What's the connection between tackiness and autocracy?
They seem to go together. 
Trump's Oval Office:

As I say, the restaurant was old-school cool. The sort of place to drink a martini.

I would go back, except entrees run around $50.
I looked it up. It cost $250 just to rent the party room we were in, and food service is some-$75/person.

And there's another Charitable Assault:
I can guarantee you that my coworkers would rather have had $50 cash and fried-chicken at Popeyes or KFC. 
Or, with a rare exception, the whole $75, and skip hanging out with coworkers you see all the time anyway.
That'd be my preference.

And skip the after -dinner "entertainment"--
 an entertainer did magic tricks with clever patter. 
He was good, and it was okay––
but he ended with using a giant deck of cards to tell The Christian Story, saying every time he came to a "ten" card,

"This is the Truth. It is not pre-ten-d."

Oh, so clever. As told to the children.

I bent over my lap and curled into a ball.
I'd have hated the manipulation no matter what, but, worse, he was talking to two Muslims and one Jew that I know of on our staff, as well as plenty of agnostic/atheists--
and this dinner included our sister store, and there must be others on that staff too.

HORRIBLE.
More Charity as Control. 
The whole thing was a trap to lure us into a revival tent.

Honestly, I expect most of my coworkers didn't mind. 
To begin with, they probably didn't look up the prices.
(They tend not to be obsessive fact-checkers like me.)
But I minded.

Ah, well. It's sort of a good wake-up call, a reminder of reality for me. 
I am rarely around this type of Christian, and they are--obviously--quite numerous and powerful.

I do see the appeal.
A HUGE attraction:
togetherness, and protection from loneliness.

Also, predictability; safety (or, the illusion of it); 
the dream of a healthy individual in healthy families in a healthy society, even if it means giving up individual freedoms.

But... it all is so... kind of... stupid.
Not stupid to believe in Jesus,
 but believing that Other People are going to keep you safe, make good decisions for you, guide your life for you?
I have not noticed that Other People are well-suited to doing this.

I mean, Big Boss can't even figure out to order more shopping baskets.
(Will they suddenly appear and prove me wrong? I hope so!)

Well, I'm not sorry I went.
It was a good reminder of what I LOVE (more important than what I hate), and what I want to pursue---
what I do want to "stir into flame"--and that is. . .

 making my own mess,
 playing 
in my messy living room.

A Girlette-Approved Plan of Living!!!

Remember to stir into flame...

 My Christmas card print turned out to be 
a painting as much as a print. 
At the kitchen table:

 

It started as a botanical print of  pine cones holding winged seeds in their scales,
 but it took off in different directions—almost calligraphic. 
The top looks like the Hebrew letter Shin... 

 

..and the whole thing reminds me of 2 Timothy 1:6
"Remember to stir into flame the things of God."

(I used to send about 100 Christmas cards, but in recent years have barely send half that. I only printed fifteen of these--the rest will be commercial cards.)

It encourages me to carve more linoleum! 

If you stay in one place, things may come back around.

I. Frog Patrol

Oh, who is this, perching in the break room at work?

Ever since the puffy Portland frogs came on the scene, I've been tucking little frogs around. 

Two other coworkers add toys or trinkets to their areas-- Sander (Hannukah candle-lighter--coming up soon, and I just found a small menorah!) and Book's Amina, who is a fan of anime and suchlike.

But--since Ass't Man left-- no one else adds decorations to the break room. 
I've hung framed art (donated) over the years. 
I just added a Virgin of Guadalupe--the Mexican apparition of Mary––in honor of our Catholic Hispanic coworkers (several from Mexico). 

II. What goes around, comes around (eventually, maybe), if you're there to see it

Ass't Man took up my invitation to help with end caps.
I was surprised. I thought I'd never see him again after he'd dropped in the week before. 

But he showed up this Monday, and I was delighted, and told him so. 
He has one hour on Mondays, he said, between getting off work (he's a special ed aide, like I was briefly) and picking up his daughter from some after-school activity--
enough time to decorate one end cap.

Great! I said. NO ONE does any decorating. 

And he whipped together this black-and-white display, below. 
He always mixed things from different departments--here, soccer shoes on the top shelf, and a speaker (?) on the bottom.
(I later added the Black rag-doll family in the basket. I know it throws off the color scheme.)

Ass't Man had left the store two years ago on a sour note--after I'd told him how uncomfortable I'd been with his drunken behavior toward me at a party at Emmler's. 

It had gone badly. I'd felt extremely uncomfortable, and he'd gotten defensive and turned on me:
"I have to walk on eggshells around you!"

And I'd gotten angry. "You sound like an alcoholic!"
Well, that was true
 . . . but said LOUDLY on the sales floor at work?
Not ideal.

That was pretty much our last conversation until four days ago, when he –– in passing (we were not even facing each other) ––mentioned that he's quit drinking.
He also let slip that he's been "sort of boycotting this place".

AND he said he'd be so much more effective as Assistant Manager now that he's worked in Special Ed.
I can totally imagine that!  

Before the thrift store, he'd worked in graphic design for twenty years, and never directly with people. 
He was terrible at people, but, granted, he was also inexperienced.
As anyone could see. 

(It's classic bad management that Big Boss made him manager. BB simply promotes the Last One Standing.  I'm only not a manager because I've refused it--and I doubt he'd offer it to me now.)

I am very happy––but cautious––about AM.
I had felt like I'd broken up with my store husband when he left.
But I know he has quit drinking before, and not been able to stay with it. So I'm not going to get my hopes up. 

It's great he's trying, anyway, and now we're not forced into proximity, maybe we can enjoy one hour a week.
I could take that time to work on another end cap.
But not at first.

We'll see if this even lasts, but I do feel a bit restored by even the brief chat. Him telling me he quit drinking feels like a reply to and acknowledgement of my distress two years ago.

THINGS TAKE TIME.

AND... talk about things going round--the same week AM dropped in, Manageress hired Emmler Ann back as cashier.
I'm thrilled!
She's the wild child artist who I'd made Alley Protectors with. She's also been gone two years.

 So that Monday AM helped up front, Emmler was at the cash register, and for a moment the three of us stood together, saying hi.

It's so interesting--it's by my own returning to the store that I am present for these people's. 
I am grateful.
_________________

III. Some stuff

It's cold outside. 26ºF / –3ºC this morning.
I added this record to a work display yesterday.

I miss my orange couch--the same color as the one above. I slightly regret having gotten rid of it, though it was the right thing to do when I moved into a room at HouseMate's. 
But I have my ugly brown couch  now, so I'm okay.

BELOW: 
An example of me taking advantage of my coworkers' ignorance: someone had priced a bag of these three skeins of yarn $4.99. 
I saw the malabrigo tag and snatched it up.

Malabrigo is a family-owned, hand-dyed yarn business in Uruguay, though this "Dos Tierras" blend of alpaca and merino is made in collaboration with a Peruvian place.
It's not the MOST expensive yarn--"only" $22/skein. (The Noro yarn of my stripey sweater is double that.)

Anyway, there's enough for a knitter to make something--it would be a shame to cut it up for God's eyes. So I offered it to J-shek, my writer friend who knits and had donated some leftover yarn to my eyes project. 
He was happy to accept.

BELOW: 
A new old tablecloth for Christmas Eve dinner! 
And a couple old hot pads crocheted to look like . . . brain coral. (I have a few already.) Can you see? Those wavy lines are open and elevated ridges. 

Found it! It's called Wiggle stitch, and it's enjoying a revival.
A free pattern here:
mooglyblog.com/wiggle-it-crochet-trivet-dishcloth-set

Now I've got my needlecrafters to help me, maybe I'll learn how to make these. They're so appealingly weird--and useful as trivets.

BELOW: Experimenting with technique...
My 2nd attempt to mimic the Diebenkorn painting. 
I wound a patch of asymmetrical blue and thicker lines of orange & red. 

The balance is not right. . . Needs to be chunkier.
 Will try, try again!
THINGS TAKE TIME.

New Happy Hour

I’m stopped for a happy hour beer and a yarn-ball rolling stint, a block from my house. Despite walking past it almost daily, I’ve avoided this deli and organic/local farms butcher & market because during Covid they instituted a 10% service fee. Lots of places started adding fees, but usually more like 4%—and most took them off after lockdown. 

I resented that this deli only removed theirs when the City passed a law saying places could not charge these (often hidden in small print) fees. I thought the deli was awfully snooty, catering to the Montessori trade. (There’s a Montessori school in the neighborhood. Like I’ve said, this neighborhood is on a social border. And so am I.)

But lately I’ve heard that they are strong, active supporters of immigrants—and I saw signs that they’re hosting a “What to Do in an ICE raid” training—the sort my workplace should hold. So this afternoon I decided to try it, and it’s very nice, though it smells of smoked meats… a mix of delicious and disgusting. They’re playing good music though. (Some acoustic alt-country blues kinda music?)

I despair of my workplace. I won’t go into it, but Manageress just decreed something so nonsensical, it’s like saying, “I want us to flounder in disorder.”

I absolutely am committing HERE & NOW to putting my energy into My Own Work, especially into art making & toy playing!

I’ve already started—God’s eyes, Christmas card prints, needlework group, postcards, Bear repair, reaching out to people… and gathering tiny musical instruments for the Girlettes’ Christmas parade—new this year!

And now I am going to wind up some of this beautiful yarn I just got in the mail from k. It’s wool carpet yarn—too scratchy to wear next to the skin but absolutely ideal for winding around sticks.

Why I love my job.

 I really needed a reminder and the thrift magic sent me one this morning – – I pulled these tiny, old, pipe-cleaner Christmas creatures  out of the trash at work. They were all bent and twisted, but savable. (My coworkers are criminal —the “church lady” ones, I mean.)

Color fields

 

From today: a God’s eye in colors from Richard Diebenkorn’s painting “Berkeley No. 52” (1955) —the postcard here. I continue trying to shake loose my color habits. 

MT dropped by with a book and joined me in wrapping yarn for a bit. She said she used to close her eyes and choose seven colored pencils out of the enormous number she had – – and then use only those in her next picture.